Zoe and Sherlock
by Kkakamaroosh77
Summary: Zoe's Diary 2: Zoe gets off work at the bar early. A friend get's engaged. Sherlock has an obscure problem. Zoe breaks something. (second in the series, they don't need to be read in order but I suppose it helps.) OC. Own universe.


Zoe and Sherlock.

_This is the story of the day I met Sherlock Holmes, sometimes referred to as the Reichenbach hero._

_I was always a follower of Dr Watson's blog, and I still am; since the short encounter with the blogs central character, the almost celebrity Sherlock Holmes, I've been following it even more closely. Obsessively. Religiously. Whatever. I am a nerd, a fangirl, a geek. I'm allowed._

_Anyway, let the tale commence._

I got a call while I was working late at The Ellie Barrow; It was one of my oldest friends, Holly, calling to tell me that hours ago her boyfriend had proposed, and she needed someone to be excited with her, the hopeless romantic. So being the incredibly kind person I am, I rushed off work early. Not because a creepy old sod was staring at me intently, no, but because I am a good friend. Actually I was staying in London mostly for her, and I was paying for a cab fare well within the congestion tax zone, so despite my sarcasm before, I was being a very committed friend.

I hailed a cab and told the driver the address. He was kinda chatty, acknowledging my requested destination with a happy 'Sure thing Love.' I was staring intently out of my window, tapping my fingers nervously. I didn't get cabs often, and when I did I got nervous: _what I have the wrong address? What if I can't pay the fare? What if the driver is a mass murderer? _ That sort of thing. We hadn't been driving long before I spotted a man in a long black coat hailing the cab. I didn't expect the cabbie to start pulling over.

'No, no, please I'm in a big hurry.' I said. I'm sorry but I don't want-'

'Don't worry love, this is a mate of mine, I owe him one. Don't worry I'll drop you off first anyway.'

I was going to protest further but it was too late. The man was opening the door and had soon clambered into the cab, sitting taking the seat beside me. To my relief the man leant away from me and kept his long coat to himself. There was something oddly familiar about him, though I couldn't place what.

'Mr Holmes, how've you been?!' The cabbie exclaimed.

'Fine thankyou. 221 Baker Street.' The man said quickly as the cab drove off. I couldn't help but notice how very sexy his voice was.

'Very good. But I warn you I said I'd drop this lady off first, hope you don't mind. Then again, if you did it wouldn't make a difference.' The man sitting with me didn't reply. 'This man got me off a murder charge, thank god.' The cabbie continued, now talking to me. 'Said I owed him one, didn't I.' I was grumpy so I only hummed in reply.

The man sharing my cab, Mr Holmes, was staring intently out of the window, dark curls and blue scarf obstructing his face somewhat. He stared muttering to himself. I could only make out a few words, but after hearing 'ballistics' and 'coagulation' I quickly realized why the man struck me as familiar; this was Sherlock Holmes! Now that I knew who it was I was far more comfortable sharing the cab. The muttering quickly escalated after my silent realization, until Sherlock Holmes banged his arm into the armrest, hissing 'It makes no sense!'

'Is everything alright?' I found myself asking.

He let his breath out in a huff. 'Yes. Sorry, I'm stuck on a problem.'

'I can tell.' I said. He turned to me. Of course I'd seen the face of Sherlock Homes before, in newspaper articles and the like, however his face struck me all over again; so interesting, with prominent cheek bones and a perfectly formed cupid's bow. Not handsome the first time you see it, but hell, that face grows on you. I cleared my throat.

'I'm happy not to talk, so if you want me to shut up say so. But you're Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?'

'Yes, I am.' He said, finally looking at me, really looking. I immediately knew that he was profiling me, quickly looking me up and down, analysing tiny details. 'And you are a student… of either graphic design or architecture. I'm leaning towards architecture.'

I smiled. 'That's a cool talent.' I looked at my hands, and saw that the thumb and forefinger of my right hand was grey with graphite. 'It's the pencil on my fingers, isn't it?' I asked.

'Partially. The graphite only tells me that you draw, however there are no smudges on your writers' palm which would suggest that you were working to keep your paper clean, which is a common trait for drawing floor plans or clean outlines, not the rough sketches of an artist. And you have no paint, pastel or glue on your hands' He said, initiating one of his famous monologues.

'The more telling clue as to what you study is the fact that you have eraser rubbings all over your sleeves and skirt, suggesting that you make lots of corrections, constantly updating your work. Graphic design or architecture.' He said. 'And Finally the fact that I can see the edge of what is most likely a protractor accompanied by a compass and a calculator pressed against the outside of your somewhat over packed bag leads me to believe that you are indeed a student, and you are indeed studying architecture.' He concluded, staring forward and nodding to himself. I raised one eyebrow and grinned.

'I'm mildly impressed.' I told him. 'But that was too much talking without breathing for you to be comfortable.' I pointed out, crossing my arms contentedly. 'What doesn't make sense?'

He sighed. 'What, do you think that you could help me solve this?' He said with a scoff.

'No Spock, I was thinking that it might be helpful to you to think out loud.'

Sherlock regarded me blankly for a moment before speaking. 'The blue police box shows up throughout history, accompanied by twelve men, but not in any sort of order; one face is seen in a painting two hundred years old, and is seen not a day older in a photo outside the V&amp;A in the present. It's a trick, it's impossible, but I can't find anything to prove it.'

'That's a rather elaborate trick. I balanced a bucket of water over a door frame once, but that's about as complex as it gets for me.' I said. Sherlock didn't reply so I assumed that he didn't feel like talking; we sat in silence as the light turned green and our cab pulled into the intersection. I heard something screeching in the distance but didn't take much note of it. Suddenly the screeching became apparent again, and the cab was slammed to the side, the interior buckling inward on my side. Later I would know that the cab had been hit by a speeding four wheel drive monster.

I regained consciousness in the cab, eyes closed, with some nut slapping my face.

'Omigod, call and ambulance, omigod omigod omigod is she dead!? Shit!' The stupid woman squawked. I groaned quietly but she didn't hear me over her own voice shrieking 'She won't wake up!' I didn't know what was happening, I felt lethargic and weak. But not so weak that I didn't crack an eyelid to slap the woman in return. Not too hard. Just hard enough that she could find comfort in the fact I wasn't dead.

I tried to shift around to undo my seatbelt, but a sharp pain shot across the right side of my chest. Ever so slowly I became aware of the various pains across my body and the blood pouring down the side of my head. Well, it wasn't pouring, but my hair felt warm and damp; it was more than a trickle.

'Ow… fucking Jesus Christ almighty with a shit and cheese sandwich ow.' I spat with same intention that one has when swearing after stubbing a toe, as if profanity will make it hurt less.

'She's alive! She's awake! She's okay!' the woman announced happily, as if I was alive because her. Someone, to my immense gratitude, yanked her out of the cab with a little '_yeep!' _and clambered in taking her place. It was Sherlock!

'Can you her me?' he asked, squatting down in front of me. I tried to shrug in reply, then hissed at the pain.

'Reading you loud and clear, Mr Spock.' I said, trying and probably failing to make a joke. Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed.

'What?' Yep. Definitely failed.

'Joke.' I clarified.

'Oh. What's your name?'

'Surely there's some magical clue that will tell you that.' I said stupidly.

'Actually I know your name, I want to see how badly concussed you are.' He said.

'Umm…' I paused. 'I have no idea. But my cat, he's called Legolas. And I know my phone number.' I volunteered. 'Would you like to know my phone number?' I cackled at my own joke, further demonstrating my apparent brain damage. I mean, the age difference? It could never work out between us. Not that it wasn't worth a shot…

'So, what's my name?' I asked.

'Zoe Magnolia Greenfield.' Sherlock supplied.

'Thanks.' I said, though I didn't quite remember it myself yet. I shifted and felt my chest flare up again. 'Erm, sorry, but could you undo my seatbelt for me?' I asked. 'I just- something hurts and the seatbelt isn't helping.' I finished. And no, I had no ulterior motives, if the screechy woman was there I would have asked her to do it.

He leant over, reaching towards the buckle of the seatbelt, his coat brushing against my knee. There was something wrong with the buckle, and Sherlock ended up struggling with it for a moment before it clicked open, and in that moment I noticed several things.

1\. - He smelt like blood, books, tea and deodorant. Well, I suppose the blood might have been me, but I still associate it with him.

2\. -His hair brushed against my arm. _I'll never wash this arm again! *giggles*_

3\. -He has pretty eyes. Maybe even prettier than Loki. I think they draw.

4\. - I'm in love. No, of course I'm not. But Sherlock's my favourite.

5\. -The fact that I'm still saying that suggests that I sustained severe brain damage in that car crash and I need to get out more.

Once the seatbelt was undone he left the cab without a word, I thought to yell at the driver of the car that hit us. Actually, I'm not really sure what I thought. I wasn't thinking about it at the time, I was busy in my own mind palace, shall we say. I didn't move, everything hurt and really I just couldn't find that many shits to give about the other driver at the time. I just did my best to appreciate the situation I'd found myself in (even if I was involved in a car crash…). Eventually a couple of ambulances arrives and ruined my delirious fun; saving me from myself, as it were.

I ended up at St Bartholomew's Hospital, and after some poking, prodding, and temperature taking I had a full list of my injuries. One laceration above right temple, mild concussion, moderate bruising and broken right collarbone. Zippedy doo dah day. The cabbie went off somewhere else, I think because his injuries were more severe. The nurses did however assure me that he would be fine.

Sherlock wasn't at the hospital. I think he just left and got another cab to Baker Street after helping me with my seatbelt. I was sitting in a waiting room type area after calling Holly; explaining why I didn't show up and requesting a lift back to my apartment. I had no money, I didn't want to get the tube this late, and I couldn't drive with one arm in a sling. Not that I had a car.

So I was tapping my fingers in nervous anticipation of my bill when, guess who, John Watson walked in, Sherlock in tow.

'John I'm absolutely fine! And you're a doctor for Christ sakes, you should know.' Sherlock said walking calmly behind John, who's shorter Legs were moving much faster to keep up the pace.

'I told you Sherlock, I want to take an x-ray of your chest.'

'It's fine.'

'You were complaining about it!'

'Don't I complain about everything?'

'Everything other than yourself, yes.' John stopped and turned to face Sherlock. 'It will only take a few minutes, and then Molly's expecting you in the lab. Shut up and deal with it.' He finished, before stomping off again around the corner.

'I don't need this, I need to get back on the case, John!' I heard Sherlock protesting as they walked out of ear shot.

I laughed to myself, but stopped when someone gave me the hospital bill.

_Holly picked me up and drove me home, explaining to me that my insurance would cover pretty much all the costs of my injury. Reading the papers the next day I spotted the headline _'Hat detective caught in traffic accident.' _My tea didn't come out of my nose, thank god, but I was close. "Hat Detective", who the hell decided that was good thing to print?_

_I had no fun for a while with my arm in a sling. I'm a right handed architect in training; how do you think my written assignments went!? I had no 'I'll see you in court, fuck face' moment with the driver of the other car. I was sent a letter telling me that all legal issued had be dealt with, and a nice little bit of compensation. Unusual, but I could take it._

_And that is the story of the day I met Sherlock Holmes._

_-Zoe._


End file.
